


broken doll

by screechfox



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Hurt No Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Mentions of Canon Manipulation, Post-Episode 160, Season/Series 04, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, get this man some therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/pseuds/screechfox
Summary: Jon has been a finely-tuned instrument of the apocalypse for years. No agency necessary, just wind him up and watch him go. He’s been clinging to the comforting illusion of free will, but Annabelle was right: there’s no such thing, not for him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 73
Kudos: 603





	broken doll

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [rotten luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283694) by [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing). 

> i was already going wild over the subtle dehumanisation in jonah's line about "it might perhaps be better named the archive" and then there was the fantastic _rotten luck_ by Prim_the_Amazing and this fic materialised

As Martin pulls Jon away from the window, Jon’s gaze moves down to his own shaking hands. He catalogues his scars with all the detachment he can muster; an irregular scattering of puncture marks, a twisted handprint burned into his flesh, the jagged line of the Distortion’s touch. 

_ Truly an archive, _ he thinks, the ache of hysterical laughter pressing into the gaps where his ribs should be. Underneath the viscera, his lungs strain for breath in a way that has nothing to do with a recurrent smoking addiction. Maybe Michael Crew would be happy he’s left a lasting mark on Jon.

Martin pulls him closer, a steadying hand on his back.

“We need to—” Jon hears him say, as though very far away. “We need to  _ do _ something.”

Jon shakes his head, and Martin tenses against him. The concerned look on his face hurts, but Jon can’t bring himself to pull away. Martin deserves a few more moments without the heartbreak of knowing what Jon is. Right now, Martin doesn’t know about the hollow spaces underneath marked skin, filled up with the involuntary rhythm of incantation and invocation.

Jon has been a finely-tuned instrument of the apocalypse for years. No agency necessary, just wind him up and watch him go. He’s been clinging to the comforting illusion of free will, but Annabelle was right: there’s no such thing, not for him. 

Jon laughs again, or maybe sobs. It doesn’t matter either way.

"Jon?" There’s a wary quality to Martin's tone and Jon thinks  _ this is it, then. _ Martin has come to his senses, realised the thing in his arms is nothing more than a cog in a vast engine of annihilation. Any second now, Martin is going to discard Jon just like Jonah did, because what’s the point in a puppet with no more strings to pull?

No, Martin takes good care of his belongings. Maybe he’ll keep Jon. But he won’t hold him like this again, so close and warm and soft. He won’t kiss him again, or tell him he loves him. 

“There’s nothing left to do, Martin,” Jon murmurs. His tongue feels heavy and unnatural under his own control, without Jonah’s voice shaping his words. “This is it.”

“Jon,” Martin says, this time tired and resigned. The curves of his eyelids are soft with worry.

“You don’t have to—” Jon cuts himself off with another sobbing laugh. “I’m not—” The words stick in his throat with a low, dull ache. Jon coughs, tasting blood. At least it’s something real.

_ You don’t have to stay, _ Jon wants to tell Martin.  _ I’m not a person, and I never have been. _

He swallows crimson and presses his face into Martin’s chest instead. Martin pulls Jon to his feet, and Jon doesn’t resist, though his feet waver beneath him. Martin has to carry Jon through to the bedroom, and Jon doesn’t resist. When Martin places Jon on the bed, Jon lets himself fall, staring into the dark nothing of the unlit room.

“Get some rest, Jon,” Martin says, and he sounds like his heart is breaking. “I’m going to— I’ll—” 

Then Martin is gone, and Jon feels another poisonous laugh rising in his chest. He lets it flow out. At least it’s something real.

Jon has plenty of time to think while Martin is away, and he comes to two conclusions.

First of all, he concludes that he probably doesn’t have rights to the name Jonathan Sims anymore. It’s entirely possible he lost rights to that name when a spider failed to eat him, leaving webs clinging to his skin that pulled him slowly and inexorably along this path. Jonathan Sims was a scared eight year old boy, and the Archivist is the mindless monster he became.

(Perhaps the Archive is a more fitting term, as Jonah said. But Archivist feels better in its thoughts, and it would quite like to pretend to be a person for a little longer.)

Second, the Archivist decides — and isn’t  _ that _ a novel course of action — that it needs to leave. It doesn’t want to leave, obviously, but when has what it wants ever mattered in the grand scheme of things? A clean break will be better for Martin; maybe he’ll be able to remember the Archivist as the person they both thought it was.

The Archivist drags itself from the bed, listening at the door. There is movement in the main room. Martin is sweeping up the glass from the broken window, and he is crying quietly.

The bedroom door creaks when the Archivist pushes it open, and Martin goes still. He tries to smile at the Archivist, but the expression wavers. His lashes glint with tears. The Archivist wants to move forward and brush them away; instead, it stands and waits for Martin’s judgement.

“Are you— Are you feeling better?”

“Mm.” 

“Jon,” Martin says, with renewed firmness. “You need to talk to me.”

“What about?” The Archivist is aware its voice has turned dull. It doesn’t have the energy to feign emotion. It feels hollowed out, fed so much fear that anything else is unthinkable. “The world has ended, Martin. That’s it. Game over.”

“I don’t believe that. Come here.”

The Archivist walks closer, letting Martin take its hand. His fingers fit into Jude Perry’s mark exactly, and his touch seems to burn. Martin is so breathtakingly  _ human _ that the Archivist wants to pull away for fear of tainting him — but what it wants doesn’t matter.

“Tell me what to do,” the Archivist says, before it even realises it’s speaking. “Please.”

Martin’s eyes widen in a lurching horror, and he squeezes the Archivist’s hand. 

“Jon?”

The Archivist lets out a broken noise. It wants to shake its head but it can’t resist a few more stolen moments of pretending to be real. Still, something must show on its face, because Martin’s expression collapses into sadness and sympathy.

“Please,” the Archivist repeats, voice strained.

“Oh,  _ Jon.” _ Martin pulls him closer, wrapping gentle arms around the Archivist’s hollowed-out bones. “Just— stay. We can fix this.”

“That’s not—”  _ what I’m for, _ the Archivist nearly says, but Martin kisses it softly before it can protest anymore. It can taste the salt of his tears, sating some awful hunger in its chest.

“Stay,” Martin murmurs, and the Archivist can’t deny him. His voice is so soft.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> as always, you can find me at [screechfoxes](https://screechfoxes.tumblr.com) on tumblr! have a good day!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [all the king's horses, all the king's men, and the nearly insurmountable complexity of putting things back together again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512154) by [ErraticIpseity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErraticIpseity/pseuds/ErraticIpseity)


End file.
